


constant intimacy

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Bisexual Character, Cousin Incest, F/F, Gals being pals, Lesbian Character, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 02:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: Philadelphia Darcy, co-heiress of Pemberley, needs not ever marry. Even in the family of an earl, few are so lucky.





	constant intimacy

At six and twenty, Lady Cora Fitzwilliam married. She had put it off long enough, and she knew her duty as a Fitzwilliam, as the earl’s only daughter. Certainly she would not have done so otherwise; she liked men well enough, but marriage never appealed to her, in itself. It gave liberty to young girls, or women with domineering fathers, or those without fortune or family. Not Cora. No one could call her a young girl; the earl was a gentle man who cheerfully indulged Cora as well as his nieces; and as her parents had no younger sons, the entirety of her mother’s fortune had fallen to Cora.  _She_ did not need marriage. 

The family, though—the family always did. 

“If only to fill roles in my uncle’s theatricals,” said her cousin Philadelphia.

Cora laughed. 

Philadelphia, two years her junior, was her father’s niece, the daughter of his favourite sister. As Cora after her, Lady Anne had married at the will of the family, her husband selected more for his influence, unblemished ancestry, influence in Parliament, and vast estates than anything else. Yet Mr Darcy turned out to be as sweet-tempered and generous as the rest of his family were unbearably conceited. And Cora loved Philadelphia more than any man.

“The choice, I hear, is a distant connection of ours,” she said. “Sir Henry Fitzwilliam. His mother is a Howard.”

“How wonderful,” said Philadelphia flatly. “You shall not need to accustom yourself to a different name.”

“I hear that he is a handsome man,” Cora went on, trying to convince herself that she felt something more than dutiful acceptance. “He was as a boy, at any rate. We met him twice or thrice.”

Philadelphia said nothing. But for all that she favoured the Fitzwilliams, she looked very much a Darcy in that moment. 

“Of course, I have not so discriminating a judgment as you, cousin,” Cora said. “I do admire a gentleman now and then.”

Despite herself, Philadelphia smiled. “Oh, a little more often than that.”

“I am a wretched flirt, I know.” Cora heaved a long sigh. “Or I was. Now I must become a model of propriety and respectability.” 

“You always have been.”

After six years in society, and nearly five and twenty years of constant companionship, Cora blushed. Absurdly gratified, she said, “A flirt? You wound me.”

Philadelphia lifted a brow. “Both.”

Cora laughed again, almost cheerful now. 

Others, sometimes, wondered why she liked Philadelphia so much. The connection between their families, however valuable, did not require friendship between the daughters of those families, nor could nearness in age alone produce it. If so, Cora would have extended their intimacy to Anne de Bourgh, equally their cousin, and not two months older than Philadelphia. Yet she certainly did not. Philadelphia she loved in herself.

In truth, Cora could never quite explain it. Philadelphia was a peculiar creature, taking no pains to appear other than she was, yet oddly elusive. Her character contradicted itself at every point, and not at all. Outspoken and very reserved, selfish and immensely kind, clever and painfully oblivious, humourless and dryly amusing—no opposition ever appeared to arise between these qualities, or to cause her the least amount of turmoil. She approached everything with unhesitating resolve, from walks in the garden to the debts amassed by four generations of extravagant Darcys.

In a whimsical mood, Cora once told her,  _You are constant as the moon, my love._

Philadelphia scowled.  _The moon is not constant at all. It always changes._

_Yet it always shows the same face, does it not? And it is consistent in all its varieties; one can predict each phase._

_I am not predictable,_ Philadelphia said crossly. Cora just laughed at her.

Now she turned to her cousin, noticing her rigid profile. Philadelphia, of course, combined an affectionate temper with a severely undemonstrative one. 

“There  _is_  something to anticipate,” said Cora.

“You shock me,” Philadelphia snapped. Then she pressed her lips together. “I beg your pardon. You should anticipate your marriage.”

“That is not what the Church tells us,” Cora replied, unable to resist the temptation. She watched with undisguised glee as colour flooded Philadelphia’s cheeks.

“Cora!”

“Philadelphia!” She grinned at the look on her cousin’s face. “Really, cousin, we are too old to be missish. But never mind that. Sir Henry has an excellent reputation as a liberal and engaging man. Papa says that my uncle Darcy knew him, and liked him very much.”

Philadelphia glanced away, her flush disappearing. “My father liked a great many people.”

For a moment, Cora entertainted a fantasy of Wickham’s bloody demise. In a bright voice, she said,

“Also, Sir Henry’s estates are in the south of Yorkshire.”

“The  _Yorkshire_ Fitzwilliams?” Then Philadelphia’s eyes widened. “How far south? Near Derbyshire?”

“Not thirty miles from Pemberley.”

Philadelphia’s reserve broke into a sudden smile. “Truly?”

“Yes,” said Cora. On impulse, she reached out to grasp Philadelphia’s hands. “I expect you and Georgiana to be the first to call on me. Indeed, I shall be very offended if you do not, and never forgive you.”

“You are ridiculous, Cora.” But Philadelphia’s fingers grasped hers. “Of course I will.”

For no particular reason, Cora could feel her heart race in her throat. “I depend upon you to lead the way. Plain brides, you know, do not receive quite the same welcome as young and pretty ones.”

“You are not plain,” Philadelphia told her. She often said so, with the loyalty of a devoted friend and the myopia of a beauty from the cradle.

“Nobody could call me handsome. Even you could not.”

“You are perfectly tolerable,” she insisted.

Cora stared at her, then gave a shout of very unladylike laughter. “Good God, Philadelphia, I love you. I pray you never change.”

“What has that to do with—” Philadelphia just shook her head. “Well, that is all nonsense. You are Lady Cora Fitzwilliam; you will have more visitors than even you could desire.”

“Unless you frighten them away.”

Philadelphia looked very innocent. “I? Don’t be silly. Who could be frightened away by a mere slip of a girl—”

“You are twenty-four years old and five foot nine in stockings—”

“—who just so happens to be a cousin of her ladyship.”

“And the heiress of Pemberley,” said Cora.

She smiled. “And that.”

“I have seen you stop grown men in their tracks,” Cora said, “without even intending it. I trust you to protect me from encroachers.”

Philadelphia turned solemn. “You have never needed protection from anything. And now you will have your husband.”

“You mean that my husband will have me.”

“Perhaps.” Her cousin gave her a quick glance. “We all know that Lady Catherine ruled over Sir Lewis. Even my father had little command over my mother. An agreeable husband may be no inconvenience to you.”

With that, Cora was smiling again. “Your sensibility truly knows no equal, cousin. Perhaps you should marry him yourself.”

“Heaven forbid.” Undeterred, Philadelphia took up her previous line of thought. “I shall never marry. And perhaps you would have preferred never to do so, yourself. Yet even if you cannot love your husband, he will be as present in your life as I, or more. I  _am_ delighted that we shall be so near, but …”

“Nothing will change,” Cora told her.

“Even with children?” Philadelphia looked down at their hands, still clasped. “Likely you will be mother to some little Harry or little…”

“Phylly,” said Cora. 

Philadelphia’s gaze jerked up. 

Cora had never felt any burning desire for children; neither of them had, and they both knew it perfectly well. Yet Philadelphia was right in that: unless she proved barren, she would find herself a mother.

“You must be godmother,” she said firmly. “Promise me that.”

Philadelphia blinked several times. “Oh—yes—of course. I shall be honoured.”

Considering her, Cora said, “That is a great comfort! I feared you might find friendship with an old married woman insupportably dull.”

“You—how could you—” Philadelphia’s eyes narrowed. “You are laughing at me.”

“Slightly.”

Cora could see that she was not angry; she rarely was—but also that the teasing, as usual, had irritated her. That was half the reason Cora did it. Besides, the flush of annoyance in her cheeks, the flash of it in her black eyes, suited her. She did not often look handsomer; at least not in Cora’s judgment, and Cora had looked at her for the sheer pleasure in looking since their schooldays. She might not possess beauty herself, but she admired it, and Philadelphia’s was the sort that turned heads every time she walked into a room.

Cora never felt the need to mention that to Philadelphia, who had pride enough as it was. And somehow it struck her as a rather awkward thing to confess. Philadelphia might think her jealous.

“Perhaps,” Cora went on, “you have it right, and my life—our lives—will change with this. But we have been companions, constant companions, almost since infancy. Nothing can change that.” She withdrew her fingers; some of Philadelphia’s tumbling curls were falling into her face. Cora pushed them back, fussing as she had always fussed.

Philadelphia’s colour deepened. “I hardly know.” Then, without warning, she embraced her, hands pressed against Cora’s back. Relieved, Cora wrapped her arms around Philadelphia’s waist, let herself falter for just one moment. Shorter by several inches, she dropped her forehead against her cousin’s—her—her friend’s shoulder. 

“You…” Philadelphia cleared her throat and awkwardly patted Cora’s hair. “You may always depend on me.”

From her, it was a declaration of undying devotion.

“No husband could be to me what you are,” Cora managed to say. She lifted her head and kissed her affectionately, the same light cousin’s kiss she had given her all their lives. Exactly the same. “And pray do not repeat it, but no child either.”

“Cora—” Philadelphia blinked several times, then smiled. “I do not betray secrets. But if I did, it would never be yours.”

Cora just nodded.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always torn about Darcy/Fitzwilliam. On the one hand, I ship Darcy/Elizabeth like nobody's business. On the other hand, I do love Darcy's description of his and Fitzwilliam's bond as "our near relationship and constant intimacy," and I feel anything described that way deserves to be a bigger ship than Darcy/Fitzwilliam is! At the least, I think it definitely sounds like _Fitzwilliam_ is his closest and most equal friend, so it's nice to imagine in a way that very few Darcy ships are.
> 
> Unfortunately, m/m doesn't do anything for me, so—Philadelphia/Cora it is.


End file.
